


Lady Alverstoke

by Ione



Category: Frederica - Georgette Heyer
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27526093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ione/pseuds/Ione
Summary: Frederica commences her first Season as a married woman by planning a ball, promising most straitly that her husband will have nothing whatsoever to do . . .
Relationships: Vernon Dauntry Marquis of Alverstoke/Frederica Merriville
Comments: 47
Kudos: 118
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Lady Alverstoke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Azul_Bleu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azul_Bleu/gifts).



The sound of hackney-coach wheels rattled up to the drawing room windows from the street below. 

Frederica, Lady Alverstoke for three sublime months, wondered how it was that the household—she fancied even the house itself—somehow anticipated the incursion of an unwanted caller. The staff had vanished, except for those whose employment necessitated their presence, but everywhere the light appeared dimmer, and even the exquisite clock on the mantelpiece seemed to chime with a subdued ring, as if it would hide its face if it could.

She kept this fancy to herself, partly because it would not be appropriate to speak so before Chloe and Diana Dauntry, Charis’s sisters-in-law, and partly because she knew Charis would blink her beautiful China-blue eyes and ask Frederica to explain.

No, better to save it until her husband emerged from his dressing room. Husband! How that word summoned all that was new and wonderful in her life, she thought with secret joy as the coach wheels came to a stop directly outside their door.

Diana sprang to the window to peek down. “It’s a hack,” she said, turning a puzzled gaze to the rest. "Here?"

Charis’s startled gaze met Frederica’s. “Lady Buxted!” they exclaimed together.

Charis bounced up from chair. “Frederica, really, I can’t . . .”

Chloe Dauntry looked equally frightened. Only the beautiful Diana seemed ready to stand her ground. “It isn’t at all the thing to fling Cousin Frederica to the wolves,” this maiden declared, her head thrown back.

Diana, Frederica had discovered, had a good heart and what her brother Endymion called excellent bottom. She was clearly ready to go to battle for her loved ones. Which was the reason Frederica rang for a servant, saying, “Why don’t the three of you inspect the ballroom, and discuss possible decorations?”

Diana wavered, but when Chloe and Charis both took her hands, reminding her that the ball was for her, she willingly decamped. A servant appeared to remove the tea tray—evidence of the girls’ visit—and Frederica composed herself. She'd expected something of the sort ever since Diana had let drop how her new maid had been in tears the day previous, having found herself interrogated closely by an imperious young lady she had taken for a duke’s daughter.

She was not the only person bracing to what she perceived as duty.

As Lady Buxted resettled her hat, smoothed her gloves, and prepared to hold her skirts well above the floor of the disagreeable vehicle, she mentally prepared to Sacrifice for her Child.

This call, which she did not want to make any more than Frederica wished to receive it, had been precipitated by a conversation over breakfast that morning, in which Jane Buxted, in arguing that she was quite old enough to have her own maid, had complained that Diana Dauntry now had one—“And Diana is not yet even out! Why should those Dauntry girls, who haven’t a feather to fly with, have their own maids, and I am forced to share with Maria and Kitty?”

“Nonsense,” Lady Buxted said briskly. “I don’t believe it.”

“They do,” Jane retorted. “I questioned her myself, when we met them in the park on our walk yesterday. She was hired a fortnight ago, as Diana is to make her come-out, and oh yes,” Jane added unwisely, outrage overriding her sense, “she is getting a ball at _Alverstoke House!_ ”

Maria turned a burning gaze toward her mother. “Mama!”

Lady Buxted blinked, very much taken aback. “Impossible,” she said, but without much conviction. It was _just_ the sort of meddling That Baggage Frederica would engage in in order to insinuate herself into the family’s good will.

Maria said, “If Diana gets one, I ought as well! I am a _real_ relation, not a distant one by marriage!”

No one at that table questioned this singular view of the family tree. Lady Buxted turned her gaze toward Jane, whose sallow face had gone an alarming red. “Mother,” Jane shrilled on a minatory note that caused everyone in the house to whisk themselves to the farthest chamber they could reach. “Mother, you _promised_ that Maria would not come out until _I_ am betrothed!”

Lady Buxted had indeed promised, safe in her assumption there would be no more grand balls for anyone, once That Baggage got Vernon in her toils, and truly, why were men so very blind? Lady Buxted supposed she ought to be grateful that That Baggage had not managed to lure Carlton to the altar, as she had very much feared all the previous summer, but of course the adventuress had set her sights very much higher.

She’d shaken away that thought, then bent her mind to consider how this circumstance, disagreeable as it was, might be turned to account. After all, if That Baggage was already putting in motion plans for a great ball, it would cost very little more to add Maria’s name to the invitation cards.

As she’d stared into her teacup, her mind sunk in profound calculations, around her a brangle broke out, louder by the moment. Jane’s shriek rose, shattering her thoughts—it was Jane and Maria, fighting yet again over the wretched business of Maria’s come-out.

She picked up her spoon and rapped it against her teacup with an insistent _ting-ting-ting_. “That is quite enough! Maria, you will spend the morning in the schoolroom, copying out your Collect.”

Maria fled tearfully, her wail heard diminishing up the stairs, “It’s not fair! It’s not!”

Jane smirked—until Lady Buxted turned a gimlet eye her way. “And _you_ will return to the schoolroom, if you cannot behave better than a chit of ten! You will never get a husband, if you do not learn to control your distempered freaks.”

Jane said sulkily, “I’ll never get one anyway! That Charis Merriville ruined my chances.” Tears glittered in her eyes, for Jane wanted very much to be married.

“True,” Lady Buxted agreed sourly, thinking with disgust that men were such simpletons—last Season had gone entirely to waste while all the eligible men (and the ineligible ones as well) circled around that Charis Merriville, who hadn’t two-pence to bless herself with. “But she is married to The Block now, and this is what’s more important. Anything I can arrange for Maria will benefit you as well.”

Jane saw that her mother’s mind was made up—and there was also the thought of a grand ball at Alverstoke House, which would be ever so much superior than any nip-cheese affair that Mama might arrange at home. Hard to endure was the image of Maria standing at the head of the grand stairs, wearing a wreathe and gauze, while Jane was forced to stand aside, but Alverstoke House! There would be the cream of the Ton present, amid sumptuous refreshments, and a full orchestra instead of the rubbishing quartet which Mother always insisted was sufficient for the purpose of dancing.

The truth was, if Jane was ever to stand at the head of the stairs again, she had to get a husband to stand beside her. And the best way to achieve that would be a grand ball at Alverstoke House.

As for Miss Maria dancing around in triumph upstairs—Jane could hear the thumps and thuds—she would be forced to stand beside Diana Dauntry, and if anyone looked twice at her in favor of Diana, it would be more than she knew.

So she said, “Whatever you wish, Mama.”

Bolstered by Jane’s unexpected submission, however reluctant, Lady Buxted hired a hack and forced herself to the unpleasant task with all the fortitude of a French _duchesse_ in a tumbril on her way to the guillotine.

It was in this mood that she mounted the stairs at Alverstoke House, and was led to the drawing room where she had once sat sewing her samplers as a girl. Instead of the fine green hangings and the exquisite circle of chairs she had grown up with, That Baggage had managed to ruin the drawing room with outlandish Greek furnishings that Augusta had loftily proclaimed tasteful—no doubt just to set up Louisa’s back.

She forced a smile to her lips as That Baggage Frederica advanced to greet her. At least she was alone. It would have been terrible had Vernon been there, too. She dreaded his caustic tongue when she tried to point out what any right-thinking person would regard as Family Duty—but he was probably not yet awake, a lamentable habit that clearly That Baggage had not been able to cure him of, and who could blame him for wanting to sleep away his mistake?

Frederica watched Lady Buxted’s quick gaze take in the room, her expression a tolerable mirror to her thoughts. Then came the forced smile, and Frederica knew exactly why she was calling—though how she could have found out about the ball, whose date had been fixed in the last two days, she had no idea. Unless Jane Buxted had somehow winnowed it out.

“Lady Buxted,” Frederica said, summoning her best polite smile. After all, for better or for worse, they were now relations. Frederica would get along if she could. “Pray take a seat. I’ll ring for refreshments.”

“Do not put yourself to the trouble, Lady Alverstoke. I do not intend to trespass long upon your good nature,” Lady Buxted said, the words _Lady Alverstoke_ like ashes on her tongue. “I called in part to convey a welcome now that you are fixed in town for the Season, and to discuss a family matter.”

Frederica knew she had guessed right. She decided to save herself a long and painful conversation. “I am so grateful! It so happens I was going to write you a note, to beg for an opportunity to call upon you, for I have something to consult you upon.”

This opening, as hoped, thoroughly took the wind out of Lady Buxted’s sails. “Oh?” Her eyes widened, and for a moment Frederica caught a glimpse of the girlish Louisa Dauntry, probably before she had been overwhelmed by her sisters whose gifts of both looks and brains had outshone her own. A slight impulse of pity caused Frederica to ruthlessly sacrifice her husband, whom she knew would forgive her. “As it happens, at our wedding, an agreement was reached between Lord Alverstoke’s heir and himself, concerning Diana Dauntry and her prospective come-out this spring.”

Which was not true, but one of the many, very many reasons Frederica’s wedding at Alver Park on Twelfth Night had been so utterly splendid was that Lady Buxted had sent an excuse and had not attended, having (as all the family surmised) not wished to put herself to the trouble, or expense, of traveling into Somerset over the holidays.

Frederica carried right on. “What with winter, and finding a school that promised scientific study for Felix, getting him ready for it, and then getting him there, the promised ball went quite out of my mind until we came to town. It is time to commence planning, and so, my wish to consult with you to find out if you would consider permitting your daughter Maria to join Diana Dauntry at this come-out ball? Or have it got it wrong, and Miss Maria is not of an age to make her come-out?”

Lady Buxted’s smile was, for the first time, genuine. Two spots of color flew in her cheeks as she said with what might even be considered a modicum of genuine cordiality (or at least relief), “She is indeed—just turned eighteen. I venture to say that she will feel just as she ought at the prospect of making her come-out in her own mother’s home. And so she will tell you herself when I bring her to speak her appreciation.”

“She need not make a special journey, but if you should wish to send her to join the other young ladies, who I will be taking for a shopping expedition into the new Burlington Arcade, she would be very welcome.”

For, Frederica reflected, Miss Maria Buxted might benefit from being lured away from her home, and her habit of cap-pulling with her elder sister. It might do her some good to spend time among the Dauntry girls, who were not only devoted to one another but very pretty behaved—an advantage that Frederica rightly credited to their excellent governess, while their mother reposed on her couch to enjoy her wretched health.

Lady Buxted agreed with an even wider smile, and when she took her leave a short time later, she settled back against the clean squabs of the Alverstoke barouche, which Frederica (as she supposed she must call her) had insisted on summoning, her mood patently different as she considered how to make the most of this unsought-for opportunity.

There remained only one vexation, which was the matter of Maria’s come-out gown. While her second daughter was not as bran-faced as her sister, she would not hold a candle to the sun of Diana Dauntry, who would be tricked out in the first fashion, even if that silly wigeon Charis Dauntry made it herself. And she probably would!

Lady Buxted hoped that she was a Christian woman, but really, the discovery through Jane that that chit Charis was not only a thrifty housekeeper, but that she actually made those gowns she appeared in, was enough to cause one to reflect that Providence could have managed to distribute its gifts much more equitably.

* * *

Back at Alverstoke House, the marquis was not only awake but in the process of completing the exacting task of tying his neckcloth.

Once he was satisfied, he turned a sapient eye toward Knapp, his valet. “Well? Is my sister gone?” For he too had heard the arrival of the hackney coach.

The wooden-faced Knapp replied, “I believe Lady Buxted has departed this quarter of an hour.”

“Thank you, Knapp.”

Bolstered by this news, the marquis came downstairs with leisurely steps in order to begin a day in which, he reflected, he had no idea what might happen. A contrast to the years previous, when he knew exactly what to expect of every minute of his day—and he had once believed that to be the way life ought to be lived.

From the direction of the ballroom echoed the giggles of girls. The marquis affected a shudder; there were some surprises, it must be admitted, one would rather forego, but . . .

He did not finish this thought as he entered the drawing room to find his wife alone with Mr. Darcy Moreton.

His wife and friend both looked up at his entry, with sudden smiles of welcome—Frederica with dancing eyes, and Mr. Moreton with a hint of . . . was that relief?

Frederica, knowing very well it was relief, declared, “You are just in time to rescue Mr. Moreton, my dear. I have, without the least remorse, been plucking his brain.”

Lord Alverstoke bent to kiss his wife’s cheek, and shook Darcy Moreton’s hand as he said, “Picking his brain for?”

“Unmarried men, of course,” Frederica replied.

“Unmarried men,” he repeated, turning his quizzing glass upon his wife, who gave a gurgle of laughter. 

“Gentlemen of birth and upbringing. At least a competence would help,” she added reflectively.

“I presume I am shortly to discover what use you would have for these gentlemen?”

“To invite to the ball,” Frederica explained.

Alverstoke sighed. “I had actually managed to forget the very existence of this prospective ball. Really, my dear, springing reminders upon me so early in the day is an act of cruelty. When is this hideous prospect to be? I should warn you that no matter what date, I feel certain I will be called away on urgent business.”

“No, by Jove, you won’t,” Mr. Moreton retorted with good-natured irony. “If I am to be jockeyed into evening dress along with these other benighted souls, then you shall be there alongside me. ”

Up came the quizzing glass. “But, I feel obliged to point out—with steadily increasing gratitude—I am no longer a single man.”

“I am a just woman,” Frederica stated with her sweetest smile. “I promise most straitly to head off any matchmaking mamas charging in your direction, Mr. Moreton. And as for my forbearing spouse, there will be other rewards.”

A glance between husband and wife caused Mr. Moreton to reflect that there were times he severely regretted his unmarried state, as the marquis said smoothly, “Beginning with the exhilarating notion that you will leave me with nothing whatsoever to do in preparation for this ball.”

“True!” Frederica laughed as she rose from her chair. “Speaking of which, I had better find the girls and listen to their ideas before Endymion turns up to carry them off.”

She took her leave of Mr. Moreton, and smiled at her husband, to receive in return the brief, special smile that entirely transformed his face. It never failed to warm her to the toes, and as she walked out into the hall— _her_ hall, in _her_ home—she pinched herself through the sleeve of her morning gown, heady with that sense the world had suddenly transformed to a fairy tale.

The few days since she and the marquis had left Jessamy happily ensconced at Alver, cramming with Mr. Septimus Trevor, and had established Felix at his new school, had sped by, her foremost emotion bliss. Outwardly so little had changed: early spring was still cold, damp, and gray with mizzle that never seemed to end, the rattle of carriages on the pavement was as loud and disagreeable as ever, the _Morning Chronicle_ was still filled with pompous political maunderings and direful stories about doings in Europe, and yet, ever since the day she stood beside Vernon Dauntry, Marquis of Alverstoke, and spoke the words that transformed her from a mere Frederica Merriville into Lady Alverstoke, she’d felt like Cendrillon in the French tale.

When she reached the landing, she paused. The intensity of her sensations on her wedding day overwhelmed her with memory: the air, so cold despite the many candles that their breath made soft vapors, Charis’s sobs echoing up the walls as Endymion Dauntry supported her, the silent, unshed tears along Jessamy’s eyelids, Felix trying valiantly not to squirm, the warmth and steadiness of her new husband’s hands taking her own.

The true beginning to her transformation was her wedding night . . .

Oh, her wedding night!

The bliss had extended through her days as she felt her way into her new role, her husband a reassuring presence at her side through the days, tender and passionate by turns when at last they were alone at night.

And now here she was, at Alverstoke House. Previously she had never set foot anywhere in this mansion outside of the drawing room. But on their arrival she had entered it as its mistress, the staff lined up in a row down the hallway to welcome her. She had looked into each face, trying to memorize them, and to learn something of the person behind the starched cap or powdered wig. Knowing the staff—speaking in a way that granted each the dignity of their particular realm, be it ever so small—had made life bearable at Graynard as they together scrimped and skimped. There would be no more scrimping, but coming suddenly among a staff who had been working smoothly together for so long demanded a similar effort.

She slid her hands up her arms, smiling, then gave herself a shake. Any moment some servant might come along and see her standing like a moonling on the landing, and then, surely, all her careful work since her arrival would go out the window as the staff wondered if she was mad. She laughed at herself as she turned toward the ballroom.

A passing footman sprang to the heavy doors to open them for her, disclosing the sight of Charis and Chloe prancing through the steps of the quadrille, as Diana hummed a Scottish air.

At the sight of her, they abandoned their impromptu dance, and up rose high female voices clamoring to be heard, echoing to the painted vaulting overhead. “One at a time, one at a time,” Frederica begged, smiling.

With the ceaseless avidity of young ladies anticipating the empyrean prospect of a ball, they continued to chatter until the arrival of Endymion Dauntry in his regimentals, fresh from a morning’s watch on duty. He greeted Frederica with his usual friendly politeness, his smile widening as Diana and Chloe rushed up to him, talking over each other in their eagerness to describe the minutiae of their plans. Frederica looked on as Charis smiled mistily up at her husband from his other side.

Frederica greeted him with genuine warmth, still regretting her summary judgment. She had striven to alter her attitude toward her new brother-in-law, at first for the sake of family harmony, but in the weeks since their respective marriages—seeing how happy Endymion made Charis, and what an excellent brother he was—she had begun to appreciate him for his own sake.

As she stood by while the four of them donned hats, gloves, and cloaks, she had to admit that though much time spent in his company made her restless with boredom, she had only to see him amongst his family to appreciate him at his best.

The group then departed, and Frederica returned upstairs to discover her husband alone, Mr. Moreton having departed while she was in the ballroom. Frederica shut the door and walked straight into her husband’s arms, relishing how well she fit there, her head tucked under his chin, his powerful arms locked around her. The feeling of his hard body against hers; she was sensitive to its contours through all the layers of their clothing.

She put up her face for a kiss, which he gave her, and new warmth blossomed into heat, but then she remembered where they were—standing in the middle of the drawing room, where anyone might enter—and regretfully ended the kiss in order to step away.

Besides . . . “I have a confession to make,” she said.

“Oh? Shall I brace myself, or must I summon Wicken to pour out a stronger fortification?”

Best to rush the fence. “Lady Buxted was here. And, well, I deemed it easier to . . . that is, we are agreed that Maria Buxted will join Diana Dauntry.”

“I expected that might occur,” he said, gravely raising her hand to his lips.

“Do you find it very objectionable?” she asked, tilting her head back to search his eyes. “I know you would much rather not hold a ball at all. Please speak, for I was going to see to the invitations this very day.”

“The mere thought makes me shudder,” he agreed with a smile, “but there are two of us now, each with what we see as our responsibilities. I don’t feel a jot is owed my pack of relations. On the other hand, I applaud your masterly tactics in running my sister Buxted off the field: if you had not given in, she would have haunted us at every turn, and bored our friends with ceaseless complaints about how badly she is treated. Now, perforce, she will have to keep silent—at least as long as you have your purse strings loosened.”

Frederica said, “That was exactly my thinking.” But she was still looking up at him, her tone tentative.

He took both her hands, running his thumbs over her palms before he pulled her to him again. “My dear, my only concern is this: do you truly want to trouble yourself with this ball, or are you immolating yourself on the altar of an imagined duty?”

“I am not.” Frederica shook her head. “I think it a real duty, what I believe women owe one another, if they are to get along at all well—for though you married me, your sisters did not. As for immolation, no such thing! The truth is, I _enjoy_ organizing such events, especially as I do not have to pinch and contrive. You cannot imagine the _freedom!_ ”

He kissed her again, then said, “I must take your word for it: for myself, a more hideous prospect cannot be imagined.”

But it seemed to be true.

He watched her very carefully over the next stretch of days, for he had begun to suspect certain things, though it was far too early to say anything. And in any case, he would leave that to Frederica to choose what was said and when. She had risen magnificently to her new rank, handling all its vexations far more gracefully than he had, though born to them; she had spoken of women’s obligations to one another, which he had to acknowledge, much as once he had done his best to ignore them. 

There were also obligations understood between men of property and position. Soon after he married Frederica, Darcy Moreton had taken him aside. “I trust you’ll get an heir sooner than later. Among the many other reasons, there is your cousin. Endymion Dauntry is a capital fellow, but he is no doubt about to become the father of a hopeful family, and it would be a hard case for cousins to be raised on one expectation, to find themselves in another situation altogether due to the sudden appearance of a small cousin. I ought to know,” he added with a slight, rueful smile.

Mr. Moreton had indeed been ‘done brown’ by his widower uncle the earl remarrying quite late in life, and managing to have a son at the age of sixty-five, a boy now at Eton.

The marquis had said everything he ought, but since that time he kept his surmises to himself, not even sharing them with his wife, whose mind, he knew, was full of the minutiae of her ball. So he confined himself to the background, ready to intervene if he saw a need.

There was none. As the days sped by, she handled everything with her customary grace and style, from accompanying giggling girls on shopping sprees to venturing down into the basement with the butler to inspect all the family plate and crystal, to overseeing the bushels of flowers brought the morning of the event.

Once that was done, he deemed it time to step in.

He found her inspecting the cakes that had just been delivered, took one look at her tired face, and drew her gently but firmly from the room. “The rest can be trusted to Wicken, my dear,” he said. “It is a beautiful day—the first in two weeks, which gives me hope winter might have spent itself at last. I’ve ordered the barouche brought round. I thought you might like to take the air.”

She looked quickly up at him, and saw in his smile that he would not be gainsaid.

And in truth, she _was_ tired. How very odd, as she was used to being busy from the moment she opened her eyes until she went to bed. For a moment she wavered, the long list of things she must see to tugging at her conscience, but then there was the warm, firm clasp of Vernon’s hand, and she let out her breath in a long sigh. “I confess it would be good to take the air. Just a short one.”

“It shall be as short as you wish,” he said, leading her to the front hall, where she was surprised to discover her maid waiting with her gloves, cloak, and bonnet. She did not even ask why he had ordered out the barouche instead of the high-perch phaeton, but she was inwardly relieved. No doubt it was merely the pressure of events, but right at this moment she did not want to be jiggled and jounced so far above the ground, which was inescapable in the phaeton.

The barouche was wonderfully comfortable, and she relaxed against the cushions with a little sigh. The marquis sat beside her, drew her arm through his, and nodded at Roxton, who touched up the horses with his whip.

By the time they had turned two corners, her smile was back, along with some color in her cheeks. She snugged up against his side, saying, “Oh, how can I thank you? This is just what was wanted. Already I feel much more the thing.”

He kissed her gloved fingers, and then asked, “What is there left for you to do?”

He had no interest whatsoever in the answer, but he listened because it gave her pleasure to enumerate her remaining tasks. They proceeded twice around the park, bowing now and then from the barouche to acquaintances—many of whom expressed delight in the prospect of seeing them again this evening—and then returned to their street, Frederica’s eyes once more bright, her color rather better as he handed her out and they mounted the stairs under the awning the footmen were wrestling into place.

Wicken was lurking in the hallway. “Mr. Trevor called on Lady Alverstoke, my lord, my lady. He insisted upon waiting.”

Frederica and the marquis looked at one another in surprise. Ever since Lord Alverstoke had introduced Charles Trevor to one of his political acquaintances—who was wise enough to hire him on the spot—they had seen little of this politically ambitious gentleman.

“Charles,” the marquis observed. “Shall we find out what he wants?”

“I did not think to see him until the dinner tonight,” Frederica admitted. "I invited him as Chloe's dinner partner."

Handing off gloves, hats, and wrappings to the footman, they strolled up to the drawing room, where Mr. Trevor sat in one of the chairs, with what appeared to be a sheaf of papers balanced on one knee.

On their entry he hastily slid his papers into a leather satchel and rose to bow.

“Dear Mr. Trevor,” Frederica said, advancing to shake hands. “I trust there is nothing amiss?”

Mr. Trevor greeted her, then turned to his former employer. “I confess I am not quite certain how to frame this matter, Lady Alverstoke. Sir. Or that I would see you both.” He looked from one to the other.

“I gather I am not wanted?” the marquis observed dryly.

Mr. Trevor blushed. “My, ah, matter has to do with a prospective guest,” he admitted. “I felt it proper to consult Lady Alverstoke.”

“Ah, the ball,” Lord Alverstoke observed, and opened the door. “I shall send up tea and refreshments to fortify you both, shall I?” On a slight smile, he closed the door gently behind him.

“Sit down, Mr. Trevor,” Frederica said, taking the other chair. “Now, what is this about my guests?”

“Well, it is not quite at that yet,” Mr. Trevor stated, coloring even more deeply. “You see, Chloe has been talking to me, ah, quite a bit. For it is her sister’s come-out, and you know how the two sisters share everything.”

“Indeed,” Frederica said. “One of their many charms, I might add.”

“Well, I have learnt far more than I wished about Miss Maria Buxted’s worries concerning _her_ sister. Specifically, Miss Buxted having made it plain that she expects to be married first, as eldest, before Miss Maria can be expected to marry. . .” He paused, reaching for the most delicate way to express himself.

Frederica said bluntly, “Making a hideous to-do over it. Much as I find it difficult to like Miss Jane, I do feel for her. It can be a difficult thing for any woman to see her younger sister married first, unless she is truly dedicated to single blessedness, and Miss Buxted is not, from anything I have gathered. But what has this to do with my guests?”

“It is this. I have in the past few days been assigned to work with a gentleman in the diplomatic service. Mr. Egbert Sebeg-Pullett is deemed one of the fastest-rising men in that branch of the ministry. I found out just yesterday he is known as the ‘grey ferret’ among the secretaries, for the way he is able to winnow out intelligence. There is talk of sending him to Russia, where his skills might be put to excellent use.”

“I see,” Frederica said, though she wondered what any of this had to do with her.

“I had occasion to share a meal with him late last night, after we waited upon the First Lord of the Treasury, and he admitted that he has been seeking a wife, but that has proved difficult, for many reasons, including the long hours he is at his desk, or in the field. And so,” Mr. Trevor finished, “I thought of your ball. And, specifically—”

Frederica’s mind had run rapidly ahead. “Jane! Jane Buxted! Oh, Mr. Trevor, she would make a _perfect_ spy’s wife!”

A laugh escaped Mr. Trevor, which he turned into a cough. But he did not deny it.

Frederica sat back. “Oh, it _would_ answer! Yes . . . but I mustn’t fly into alt. Everyone says that there is never any use in matchmaking, for you can introduce people, but you cannot make them take to one another. As Lady Jersey once observed in my hearing, it’s like attempting to harness cats to a chariot.”

Mr. Trevor looked down at his hands. “I know. I also know my proposition is highly irregular. But in hopes you might be sympathetic to the idea of inviting him—I could convey the invitation verbally, for I’ll be seeing him this afternoon to turn over certain papers to him.”

“Do it,” Frederica stated, thinking rapidly. “In fact, bring him to the dinner beforehand. I was going to put Jane next to Carlton, but I can rearrange the seating.”

Mr. Trevor thanked her, picked up his satchel, and took his leave.

Frederica went straight-away to amend the table she had spent so much thought on. What lady could she press into service so the numbers would not be thrown out? Of course: Lady Jevington’s Anna, whom Frederica had not thought to invite to the dinner, though of course she was expected at the ball. Anna was not particularly close to either the Buxted or the Dauntry girls, and her own wedding was to be held next month, but she was an amiable girl, and Frederica thought she might be willing to arrive early if a letter were sufficiently apologetic enough.

Frederica bustled up to her desk to dash off a note, summoned James to carry it around to Jevington House, and from then on embarked on a ceaseless stream of activities until it was time to retire upstairs to dress.

When she sat at her dressing table, she was aware of a return of the morning’s lassitude, and so she summoned her maid to bring up hot wash water as well as cold, that she might brace herself up. It worked well enough that her flagging energies woke again, and she put on her new gown of shimmering silk in her favorite brown, embroidered with tiny flowers, and flounced with looped fringes.

Her maid was putting the finishing touches to her headdress when Frederica was frozen by a sudden thought: what if this Mr. Sebeg-Pullett was not quite . . . presentable?

Oh, but surely Mr. Trevor would not introduce a thorough-going blackguard into her house? But then she remembered that what men thought about other men might not be what a woman would think . . .

She was frowning into her mirror when the inner door opened and her husband walked in, looking magnificent in his evening dress. She rose, turned, and smiled.

He stood back, regarding her. “You look beautiful, my dear.”

She advanced toward him. “I know you dislike evening dress, otherwise I could wish to see you like this every day,” she said, reaching up to kiss his freshly shaven jaw. She suppressed the impulse to follow up those kisses—and saw the answering ardency in his eyes, which never failed to make her veins run with shimmering heat.

He kissed her lightly, then said, “Troubled, my Frederica?”

“No—yes—that is, I do not know.” She explained quickly.

“Jane?” he said when she reached the end. “Charles Trevor found a possible suitor for Jane Buxted?”

“Well, we do not know if it will answer. He might not be at all the thing—and even if he is, they might not demonstrate the least interest in one another, and apparently he is to be sent to Russia sooner than later.”

“Russia,” he repeated. “My dearest dear, say the word, and I will hire some of Jackson’s finest brawlers to make sure the both of them are on that ship.”

He was pleased to see her smile brighten into a gurgle of laughter, then she sighed. “It would be perfect, wouldn’t it? He is in the diplomatic service—”

“A spy,” the marquis said with a grim smile. “But that does not necessitate his being a rascal. Far from it. He’ll be one of Farwood’s boys.”

“Lord Farwood?” Frederica repeated doubtfully. He was on the guest list for the ball because, in addition to adding Mr. Moreton's suggested eligible _partis_ , she had reproduced the year previous’s list, when she and Charis had made their come-out along with Chloe and Jane. But all she knew of Lord Farwood was that Lady Buxted and Mrs. Dauntry had both wasted no time introducing him to Charis—at the same time Lady Jevington had taken Frederica aside to warn her that he was a notorious flirt, some even said a rake, and a definite danger to beautiful women.

She looked up in question. Lord Alverstoke once again intuited what she wanted to ask, and forestalled her. “Farwood definitely has a reputation as a _bon vivant_ , which hides a very sharp mind. In any case, he only dallies with married women of a certain type. Your fledglings are perfectly safe from him. More to the point, all the secretaries and agents in his employ come from impeccable backgrounds—the Yorkshire Sebegs are quite an old family, and the Pulletts even older.”

“Oh,” Frederica exclaimed in relief.

He went on reassuringly, “All Farwood's gentlemen speak at least four languages, and do their spying at parties, balls, and clubs, in evening dress, not shrouded in cloaks and masks, clambering over rooftops in the dead of night.” He tilted his head. “Jane Buxted is well born. That governess my sister tried to jockey me into paying for after Buxted died taught those girls French and German at the least, and Jane has no doubt been raised to be thrifty as well as to know how to host dinners and dances. She is also,” he added in a trenchant tone, “addicted to backstairs gossip. The more I consider it, she would be the perfect wife for a spy.”

“That was exactly my thinking. So of course they will not like one another,” Frederica said with a sigh.

“We shall see,” he replied, drawing her hand into his—well aware that no one could be more passionate about finding a husband than Jane, excepting only her mother. And that there were many reasons to marry besides love. “It’s very close to the hour. Shall we go down and greet our guests?”

As it transpired, Mr. Trevor, with his colleague in tow, was one of the first arrivals. Frederica was considerably relieved to be presented to a young man whose taste in clothing could not be faulted. He himself was somewhat on the short side, with thinning blond hair, a cherubic face, and an amiable smile that drew the eye away from his lack of chin. His slight squint belied his intelligence—she realized as they spoke commonplace politenesses he was the sort of gentleman no one ordinarily remembered five minutes after meeting. The ideal spy.

The rest of the dinner guests arrived, Lady Jevington with her daughter Anna, as requested—when this lady saw the seating arrangement, and the young man next to Jane, her rather austere face relaxed into the tiniest smile of approval.

And so the dinner progressed, the many candles lending a golden glow to faces, erasing years in the elders, and reflecting in the eyes of the young people, presenting them at their best. Frederica, looking down the table, rejoiced at every smiling face. Maria Buxted, whose taste in dress was far better than her elder sister’s, was not nearly as strikingly lovely as Diana Dauntry, but she was an animated little thing, quite taking as long as she was not brangling with her elder sister.

As for Jane Buxted, nothing could dissuade her from her favorite pink, but at least her clothes were excellently made, and she was on her very best behavior, deep in conversation with her dinner partner, no doubt asking questions about his calling. It was difficult for Frederica to read the young man’s expression; the marquis, with rather more experience, noted a young lady on the hunt for a husband chattering to a gentleman very willing to be caught.

Her first ball as hostess was a success so far, Frederica thought with cautious approbation. The food tasted off to her, but that had been true for some days now, no doubt because of the bustle and hurry of the ball. At least, no one else appeared to find anything amiss, judging by how many empty plates she saw borne away as courses came and went. She went through the motions of eating as she watched the flow of wine and ratafia, and the smooth arrival of courses and sides.

The meal ended at last, and the ladies withdrew scarcely long enough to pour and drink down one cup of tea: the only topic of conversation was the ball.

Then it was time to welcome their guests—and so began an interminable interlude of standing, smiling, repeating the same words of welcome and introduction. But she had Vernon at her side, lending her strength with his very presence.

Frederica was obliged to open the dancing with an aging duke, the most prominent ranking guest, and the marquis with his duchess, but after that Frederica was free to walk about, overseeing everything. Not that she was really needed: the staff was clearly experienced at providing necessities and whisking away what wasn’t wanted.

Diana and Maria danced every dance—and Frederica was relieved to see Jane Buxted and Mr. Sebeg-Pullett midway down the set, Jane’s cheeks flushed, her eyes bright.

Nothing remained to be done . . . It was then that Frederica became aware of tired knees and drooping eyelids. Could she sit down without drawing attention?

“I am told,” said a familiar, stringent voice at her right, “I have you to thank for inviting that young man.” It was Lady Buxted, appearing at Frederica’s side. And was that . . . a smile? “I believe he is connected to the Yorkshire Sebegs?”

Relief rolled over Frederica in waves. “I am reliably informed that is true,” she said. “He is rising very fast in the diplomatic service, where he is much cherished.”

Yes—those thin lips actually increased in what was, for Louisa Buxted, a positive grin. But then her sandy brows knit as she studied Frederica. “You look as if you ought to be sitting down. And I noticed you ate nothing at dinner—while a great deal might be said about my brother which will remain unspoken, he hired an excellent cook.”

“I’m perfectly well, though perhaps a trifle tired,” Frederica admitted. “I don’t know why—it’s silly. I am used to much more labor than this.”

“But you are not used to being in a delicate situation?” Lady Buxted murmured.

Startled, Frederica was about to deny the possibility. She looked forward very much to having her own family, but somehow that had seemed to belong to the hazy future. She was scarcely accustomed to being married!

She flushed, then hesitated, mentally counting days. Then she recounted. And then turned a surprised gaze to the older woman, who, very much gratified by what she had seen of Jane’s possible suitor, crowned her evening by finding herself in the heady position of the giver of advice. “Five times I was brought to bed. I believe I know the signs as well as anyone. You ought to be sitting down. If you wish me to look about me or oversee anything, you have only to say the word—this was once my own home . . .”

Frederica suddenly wanted nothing more than to get off her feet. “If I could just sit for a few minutes, I will be perfectly well, but I thank you for your generosity,” she said. She definitely needed a chair, if only to consider the astonishing idea that had just been put into her head.

Lady Buxted’s voice was positively human now. “Come, there’s the alcove where Augusta and I used to be permitted to sit and watch through the curtains, back in the days of polonaises and powdered wigs.” She indicated one of the two little nooks, each containing no more than a pair of upholstered chairs, and she half-pulled aside a brocade curtain, pointing out one of the chairs.

“Thank you. Just for a minute,” Frederica said.

Lady Buxted scarcely remained long enough to hear that, then bustled self-importantly in the direction of Lady Sefton, no doubt to pour it all into her ear in strictest confidence. Frederica was half-inclined to run after her, but what could she say? It would be all over the female portion of town by tomorrow, but what matter, really? Even if it turned out not to be true, it would not constitute a _scandal_.

Frederica sat down with a sigh of relief, and began to ply her fan. It was entirely too warm, she discovered as she peered out at Diana and a tall young lord from the north bounding happily down the long line of the set.

She was debating rising again to duty when she was startled by the appearance of a Pink of the Ton whose snowy perfection of a cravat rose nearly to his ears. He made an elegant leg, and a pair of warm blue eyes regarded her as he asked, “I have been looking for you, Lady Alverstoke. May I sit down?”

“Lord Farwood?” she asked, a bit blankly.

His smile broadened. “We were introduced last year, but you can certainly be forgiven for forgetting my name among the host of others presented to you that night.”

Frederica bit back a laugh, remembering the circumstances, but she said only, “I don’t think we’ve met since?”

“No; I was sent to Germany not long after you and Miss . . . stay, Mrs. Dauntry, made your appearance. And thence to France. I only returned for Christmas. Likely soon to be off again.” He lifted his quizzing glass, surveying the dancers. “I wished to thank you personally for inviting my young protégé, Mr. Egbert Sebeg-Pullett, this evening.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, color flooding her cheeks. “It’s Mr. Trevor you ought to thank, for bringing him to my notice.”

Lord Farwood managed a minute nod in spite of the formidable neckcloth. “But I am well aware that most hostesses are understandably reluctant to throw out their careful arrangements at the last minute. As it happens, the one _accountrement_ , as it were, that my protégé was missing was a wife. You’ve no notion, especially these days, how very useful a wife can be in an embassy . . .” He passed on adroitly, talking humorously about diplomatic affairs keeping him and his staff living out of trunks aboard ships and in coaches ever since the Congress of Vienna had redrawn the map of Europe.

She knew just enough about that historic event to put a question or two, whereupon he embarked on a couple of amusing anecdotes about the wily old Talleyrand, survivor of five governmental ructions, keeping her in a ripple of laughter, as on the other side of the ballroom, a pair of cynical eyes observed what could be seen of them through that half-drawn curtain.

Then, satisfied at what she thought was seeing, Mrs. Parracombe, wife to the Honorable Alfred Parracombe, went in search of her host.

She had been surprised to receive an invitation to the ball, unaware that her hostess—whom she'd put down as an ignorant rustic—had simply reproduced the previous year’s list of guests, assuming that she ought to include some of her husband’s old friends, whether she liked them or not.

For Frederica had not liked the disdainful, condescending Mrs. Parracombe, even before she found out that this lady’s name had been coupled with Lord Alverstoke’s previous to his introduction to the Merrivilles. But, mindful of her promise to handle all aspects of planning herself, she had not troubled her husband with the details of the long guest list—so she did not know that Lord Alverstoke had not expected, or even wanted, to see either of them enter his home.

Lord Alverstoke had said nothing that was not civil in greeting the pair among the stream of arrivals at the ball, but as the evening progressed, Mrs. Parracombe, who very much counted upon Lord Alverstoke returning to her side once he was bored with his beanpole of a bride, was not asked to dance. Further, every time she looked for him, he always seemed to be on the opposite end of the long ballroom, or dancing with some chit without a partner, or gone into the card room, which was blue with smoke.

So he was playing hard to get? She was an expert at that game—had been merely waiting for an opportunity, and now she had found it.

She spotted him returning some damsel to her seat as the music ended. She waited until he turned away, and adroitly presented herself, her fan languidly waving just above the low-cut blue silk that she knew flattered her splendid bosom. “I was concerned for you, buried in the countryside over the long winter, my dear friend,” she began, twirling the fan slowly.

“I thank you for your concern,” he replied, with a slight, ironic bow. “You will be relieved, I am certain, to discover that your concern was entirely misplaced.”

That was not at all the answer that she had expected, but then she thought she knew his moods. So he would play the ardent bridegroom, would he? _That_ would end fast. Perhaps even the faster, as she said with barely concealed spite beneath her smile, “Speaking purely as a friend, I wonder if I ought to give your wife a little hint about how to go about such delicate matters? Really, and with Lord Farwood, of all people.” A wave of the fan toward the opposite side of the room, where Frederica and that gentlemen sat in one of the little alcoves, the curtain half concealing them.

“Permit me to repeat,” he replied, “that your concern is entirely misplaced.”

Another might have taken the hint. Desire overcame prudence, and Mrs. Parracombe stepped closer, her smile creamy. “I must say, I did not expect _you_ to assume the role of _mari complaisant_. . .”

He raised the quizzing glass, presenting her with a coldly winking barrier that magnified his ice-hard eyes. “Interesting. Until now I had not be aware of how very predictable is a commonplace mind.”

She stared. His voice was soft, his drawl light and languid, so light it almost masked the intent of the words. Almost. She quickly recovered, the only sign that this set-down had registered a dusting of color under her careful _maquillage_. Finding a familiar, slightly well-to-live viscount nearby, she turned her shoulder on the marquis and plied her fan languidly as she addressed this old acquaintance, with whom she walked away. Very soon she found her husband in the card room, losing horridly as usual. They took their leave, but if she had expected her host to watch for her, she was disappointed to the last, for he had forgotten her presence by the time he had crossed the ballroom.

As he pulled back the curtain to enter that little alcove, two heads turned, his wife with an unmistakable smile of welcome.

Farwood got to his feet. “Alverstoke,” he said in greeting. “I was just thanking your wife for including young Sebeg-Pullett tonight, and before we knew it we got onto the Congress of Vienna.” An easy smile, a bow, as the two gentlemen understood one another. Then he was gone, and Lord Alverstoke took his place.

He searched her face. “Your ball is everywhere hailed as a sad crush, and every time I look your girls have been on their feet dancing. I’d call it a superlative success. But I’ll damn the entire lot of them if it’s put you to any discomfort.”

“Oh, not that,” she said. “At least . . . I don’t think so, but . . .” Color flooded her cheeks as she glanced around.

And he said, “Ah. I wondered,” he murmured, reaching for her hands.

“Wondered?” She leaned her cheek against his outstretched hand.

“Whether this fatigue might possibly find its cure in, say, another seven or eight months?”

This time the blush turned her rosy to the collarbones. “How would you . . .” Her lips parted, her expression arrested, and then she uttered a small, breathless laugh. “Sisters!”

His smile was instantaneous, and very tender. He would not completely deride the Mrs. Parracombes of the world, for he was very aware that if he had not met Frederica, his life might have continued on a similar path. Instead he treasured anew this miracle, his Frederica, a woman whose first thought never went to the mean-spirited or tawdry, but sought the most sensible, and generous, answer. He was aware, with gratitude, that he had a lot to learn about such a mind, and was still learning.

“Sisters indeed,” he rejoined. “Three of ‘em. Four, if you count Lucretia, and she would be very put out if she were not counted, for she made truly herculean efforts to convince me from the outset that a ready-made heir would be so very much preferable to disturbing my dissipated life with all the trouble of a wife and children of my own. And all four of them seemed to think it their duty to instruct and warn me from the time I first came out against the, er, result of what they called racketing about town.”

A soft gurgle of laughter escaped Frederica. “Then you know very much more than I do. I had not even thought of it until Lady Buxted put me in mind of the possibility.”

“Louisa! The very last I would have guessed might take a maternal interest,” he replied, smiling down at her.

“She was actually quite kind about it,” Frederica said. “No doubt I will soon be the recipient of reams of capital advice, but that is no hardship. Having lost my dear mother far too early, I find myself at a stand, I have to admit. It will be good to consult other women with more experience.”

He was surprised at the strength of the elation rushing through him at the prospect of Frederica’s child. Now that the hypothetical had become more immediate, the urge to protect and aid her surged in him. “I can have Sir William Knighton here tomorrow,” he promised.

“There is not the least need,” she assured him. “As we just agreed, I have a host of experienced women surrounding me. I've sat long enough, and would love to dance. Shall we rejoin our guests?” 

They rose and began to walk about their brilliantly lit ballroom, amid beautifully dressed people laughing, chattering, and dancing. He was aware of the joy welling up from a deeper source, so deep he was not certain he had the words to characterize it. Was it merely the trust between them, as unconscious on Frederica’s part as it was unconditional?

His mind reached back almost a month ago, when he walked into his drawing room to discover Frederica alone with Darcy Moreton—a man he knew had once proposed marriage to her. But there had been no hint of self-consciousness in either of them, nor would there be questions later on when he was alone with Frederica, though he was fairly certain she had seen him in conversation with Mrs. Parracombe. Trust.

His faith in her, his hope for a marriage of mutual felicity—emotions he had once believed entirely ephemeral, if indeed they existed at all—afforded him a sudden glimpse of their future, walking together just as they were now. He knew with a deep conviction that even when her hair had gone white and he might be doddering, they would still find one another fascinating.

The orchestra began the distinctive, beguiling one-two-three of a waltz.

“My lady?” he asked.

“My lord,” she replied, and twirled eagerly into his arms.


End file.
